The Light of Dawn
by G. Locket
Summary: Moments shared between an Elven-prince and a young Rider of Rohan.
Originally written for the March 2016 Teitho prompt, "Life and Death", entered under the pen name _Idhrenieth_.

Disclaimer: All recognizable parts of the story belong to their rightful owners. (On that note, I should point out that the narrator in this story is not an OC. He is actually a character who appeared in The Two Towers book... for like... half a page.)

If you spot something that I can improve, anything at all from typos to plot holes, please let me know in a review or a message. I'm a firm believer that a story can always be improved. This is not the final draft, but the best version of the rough copy. Thanks and enjoy!

October 15, 2016: Made some minor edits. Thanks to UnnamedElement for the feedback!

* * *

The Light of Dawn

Within the fortress of Hornburg, a young man sat in a corner of the courtyard, munching on the last bit of his bread. He was still weary from his last battle at the Fords of Isen, and the arduous ride in search of the king had only added to his fatigue. Nonetheless, he felt a bubbling sense of excitement and awe as he tried, in vain, to keep himself from staring at the breathtaking figure standing a little distance from him, leaning casually against the stone wall, tending to a gleaming, ivory-handled long knife.

The creature was dressed in subtle colours of green and brown. His tunic and leggings were dirty with wear, but did nothing to diminish the flawless features that seemed to possess an otherworldly glow. His fair face was complemented by a head of soft, flowing blond hair. _No,_ the man corrected himself, _not blond, like most men of Rohan._ More like tresses of pure, molten gold that shone in the afternoon light.

 _He is a warrior_ , the young man observed, watching the creature's light, expert fingers on his weapon. His stance was, for the moment, relaxed and elegant, but the man thought he saw a surging undercurrent of strength.

 _He will also go into battle tonight._ The young man realized with a pang of regret, that such a pure, magnificent creature could perish. _But no. Elves are blessed with immortality. Unlike us, unlike me._

 _So many will die._ The thought came unbidden into his mind. He swallowed thickly, unsure if it was despair he felt or simply fear. They were but two thousand men, trying to defend against more than ten thousand minions of the Dark. And among the two thousand, how many were like himself? Young, inexperienced, afraid?

No, it was more than fear, it was despair.

He felt his shoulders slump. He had walked this earth now for twenty-three years, and had tasted his fair share of life's joys and sorrows. Yet, was he prepared to die this night? Would it be worth it? He did not know. After all, what did he have to fight for? A broken land, a broken people, a broken family. Aye, he still loved his family, his widowed mother and his little sister. But amidst this overwhelming Shadow, his family, his own life, seemed unsalvageable, insignificant, and –

"Well met, my friend." A voice, more fair than the most beautiful of songs, interrupted his thoughts. The young man looked up and saw a delicately chiselled face framed by golden hair. He froze.

The creature smiled kindly, and the young man felt his chest warm a little.

"I am Legolas, of Mirkwood."

The man only stared.

"C…Ceorl," he blurted a clumsy introduction after a long stretch of silence. The creature nodded mildly. The smile did not leave his face.

"You are an Elf," the young man whispered incredulously before widening his eyes in horror. He was in the presence of a magical creature heard only in the legends, a creature which supposedly possessed powerful magic and unerring wisdom. And all he would come up with was "You are an Elf."

"Yes, I am." Much to Ceorl's surprise, the creature replied lightly, without judgement.

The young man started and looked into the Elf's eyes. They did not, as the tales suggested, look terribly sorrowful or old. Instead, they held only light-hearted amusement and the vibrancy of youth. _In fact_ , Ceorl thought in disbelief, _he looks only a little older than me_.

"So… Why are you here?" Ceorl asked lamely then winced. _I see my social skills have not improved._ His little sister had often teased him for his awkwardness, but he had never given it much thought until now.

"Will you also be in the battle, sir?" he tried again.

"Yes, I will," the Elf answered.

"You are immortal," the young man said again without thinking, then grimaced at his own crudeness.

"Yes, I am," the Elf replied patiently.

"So you cannot die in battle?" Ceorl could not help but ask, voice laced with a hint of envy and bitterness. If the Elf had noticed, he did not seem to take offence.

"No, Elves can perish from wounds. Many have."

"Then why are you here?" the man asked, innocently, genuinely. "Why do you fight a battle of Men?"

A pause.

"It does not matter if you are a Man or Dwarf or Elf. A life is a life, and I would gladly give mine for that of a mortal a fraction of my age."

"And…how old are you?"

The Elf smiled a little wistfully. "What year is it now?"

The young man raised his eyebrows. "Um… The year is three thousand and nineteen, sir."

The Elf tilted his head, as if needing to process what had just been said.

"One thousand nine hundred ninety-four."

Ceorl recoiled. He stared at the ancient being in front of him, so very old yet still filled with an air of purity and hope. The man shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to say.

"What land do you come from, my friend?" the Elf enquired gently. Ceorl felt himself relax a little.

"Rohan, sir. My family lives in Edoras. And you said you hail from Mirkwood?"

"Yes, I do."

"What is it like?"

The Elf's eyes clouded for a moment. Then, he shook his head and smiled with a pained fondness.

"The kingdom has been under the Shadow for almost two millennia. The forest is not as it once was. In the south, one of the Nine occupies the stronghold of Dol Guldur."

Ceorl looked up as the Elf paused. The light of youth was gone from his eyes, replaced by a shroud of age and weariness.

"The land is run with Darkness – Orcs, Wargs, and giant spiders twice the size of men. Many have been forced to abandon the trees and retreat into the Mountains."

Ceorl stared, eyes wide with horror, but the Elf smiled once again, his features full of pain but also of immeasurable pride and love.

"But it is home – the forest, the land, my people, my king."

"And you fight for all of it," the young man voiced with wonder and respect, "even to death."

"To die is sometimes terribly easy. No. It is home. It is what I live for."

* * *

Ceorl let his head hit the cold stone wall and released a shuddering breath. All he could hear was the persistent clatter of metal against metal, highlighted by screams of Men and Orcs alike.

He was alone. Most of the soldiers had already retreated into the fortress, but Ceorl had not moved a muscle. He was conscious, relatively unhurt, but _so very tired._ There seemed to be a weight in his bones that was trying to sink him deeper into the muddle of blood and dirt and Vala-knows-what-else.

He wanted this all to end. He wanted to sleep and eat and laugh like a normal person. He wanted to be _human_ again – to live or die, not stuck somewhere in between. He wanted –

"Ceorl!" A voice, beautifully out of place, permeated the chaos. Ceorl opened his eyes and saw a lithe figure running towards him with twin knives in hand and bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. _The Elf,_ his sluggish mind supplied after a moment. _Legolas_. In a blur, the archer dropped to one knee in front of the young man, eyes filled with genuine concern.

"Ceorl, look at me!" he urged, voice half drowned by the approaching shouts of Orcs and Uruk-hai from the Helm's Dike and beyond. "Where are you hurt?"

"I am fine," the man managed a hoarse whisper.

The Elf stared for a moment, bewildered.

"Then what is wrong?"

Silence (washed in screams of fear and pain and despair).

"I do not wish to do this anymore."

"What?"

"Just leave me be. I cannot to do this anymore."

"Ceorl! Stop this nonsense at once! We must go now or else you will get yourself killed."

"Then I shall die." A pause. "Leave me alone." He looked up and felt wetness in his eyes. " _Please_."

"Ceorl, you must fight."

"Why? I have nothing to fight for. Tell me. What do I have to fight for?"

Ceorl watched as the Elf's breathing quickened and as rage seeped into his eyes. These were no longer the eyes of a friend or of a comrade. They were the eyes of a commander – cold with fury and hard with authority. _But there is something else_ , Ceorl thought as he barely resisted the urge to squirm. Behind the wall of anger and veil of disappointment, there was a hint of pained remembrance, as if the Elf had witnessed this very scene countless times before, as if this time may be once too many.

Before the man could process this slightly disconcerting observation and the odd _feeling_ that had manifested in his chest, he saw, with no small amount of alarm, the elven-warrior clench his teeth, purse his lips, then –

 _Slap_.

A smooth but strong palm connected forcefully with Ceorl's left cheek, whipping his head to the side. The young man's eyes widened as the overwhelming sound of war faded into a barely perceptible hum. Legolas seized him by the collar, swept up his dropped sword, and shoved the hilt into his chest.

"You fight for your people and your faith. When you cannot do that anymore, you fight for yourself. When you cannot do _that_ anymore, you fight for the man beside you. You fight for _me_."

A pause. Then, the Elf's eyes softened, and he placed a firm, reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. "Just as I fight for you, so we may both see the light of dawn."

* * *

 _I am alive,_ thought Ceorl incredulously, _I am still alive._

The young man surveyed the vast Pelennor Fields – the smoke and pain and death – and felt his knees buckle. _There is no victory in war_. The old saying resonated hauntingly, almost mockingly, in his mind. So many had perished – warriors, leaders, even the king – yet he, a mere child of twenty-three years, an inexperienced Rider of the Mark, had lived.

Struggling to suppress his tears, Ceorl glanced over the Fields once again. His gaze landed on a figure he had not seen since that horrifying night in the Deep.

"Legolas!" the man found himself calling out.

The Elf turned around. He looked tired, but nonetheless beautifully ethereal despite the dirt and blood that covered him from head to toe. His eyes, though, were strangely blank.

For a terrifying moment, Ceorl thought that perhaps the Elf would not recognize him, because he was simply another soldier, expendable, who could be sacrificed then forgotten by the end of the war.

 _Just as you have forgotten the dead_.

Ceorl gasped at the sneering voice in his head. He had not forgotten the dead, had he? No, he still recalled vividly all those who had perished in the Deep – his friends, his fellow Riders of Rohan, his former mentor and captain. And those whose names he did not know, he remembered their faces. He still saw them in his dreams, still saw their bloodied, broken bodies and hollow, unseeing eyes. He had tried to forget. He had tried so very hard to forget that night, to forget the dead. _I tried to forget the dead._ Was that wrong? Was –

"Ceorl!"

He looked up into the concerned eyes of the Elf.

"My friend, are you alright?"

Ceorl could not speak. He felt numb, frozen. Upon this field of battle fought and won, he felt a breathtaking sense of dread and loss.

"I want to go home," he finally chocked out.

The Elf in front of him stilled, barely drawing breath.

"I want to go home," he said again, tears starting to slide down dirty, bloodied cheeks. He was not sure how he could ever look his mother in the eyes again, after seeing all this evil and death. But he wanted to go home, back to the familiarity and simplicity, back to his life.

"I want to go home," he muttered yet again and looked up at the Elf. "Will you not be glad to finally go home, Legolas? When this is all over?"

The Elf smiled, a smile that was by all means genuine, but held such incomprehensibly deep pain that Ceorl could not help but gasp. The same _feeling_ that had invaded him in the Deep spread once more in his chest, making his heart clench with something unfathomable, something akin to dread, as if he were on the edge of understanding some terrible, unspeakable truth.

"Yes," the Elf replied in a delicate, almost fragile whisper, as if he were trying to convince himself of a fantasy that he knew could not be true, "I shall be very glad to go home."

Ceorl watched as the Elf looked to the north. Then, after a long while, to the west. In his eyes, there held a longing that the young man knew far belied simple homesickness, a longing that he, as a Man, would never come to understand.

* * *

"We have won the war. But why do I feel as if I have lost everything?"

The young man stood beside Legolas on a quiet balcony in the city of Minas Tirith. The Elf was silent for a moment, as if he had not heard the whispered question, before tilting his head to regard the man, with an oddly guarded look in his eyes.

"Ceorl, introduce yourself to me."

"Huh?"

"Introduce yourself to me," he repeated, "as if I were a stranger."

"Um… sure…" The young man cleared his throat and started, with a subtle, habitual bow of his head, "Well met. I am Ceorl of Rohan, glad to be at your service."

"Tell me, Master Ceorl, about your family." The man's chest constricted for a moment at the strange use of formal address.

"My father was a Rider," he replied with a small smile of pride. "We lost him in battle when I was nine. My mother lives in Edoras, not far from the Golden Hall of Meduseld. I have a little sister, too." He felt his smile widen at the thought of the girl.

"And what do you do for a living?" Ceorl's breath hitched.

"I am a soldier," he replied after a moment, "but the war just ended." He frowned and replayed those words in his head, trying to detect a sliver of emotion: happiness, relief, or, Valar forbid, _disappointment_. There was nothing.

"So what are your plans for the future?"

"Go home," the man blurted without hesitation. "See my family." A pause. "And friends, too," he added, feeling a strange mix of fondness and uncertainty.

"And after that?"

"I do not know. Maybe I could go work in the fields." He grazed his teeth against his lower lip and continued, "Or maybe apprentice under a horse master." Another pause. "Go on hunting trips with my friends. Spend time with my little sister. Teach her how to ride like a true Rohirrim. Help Mother around the house. Maybe finally listen to her and learn how to cook something edible. Sing, drink, dance, jest. Just, you know… _live_."

Ceorl shrugged and glanced up expectantly at Legolas. The Elf was staring into the distance with a hollow smile. The _feeling_ invades the young man's chest.

"See, you have not lost everything." Legolas looked at him straight in the eyes. He felt his heart warm up and his blood run cold.

"Oh."

* * *

In a quiet back street of Minas Tirith, Ceorl was surprised to see the familiar figure of the Elf. He walked soundlessly, with his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly lost in thought. He was dressed in a fine tunic of elven-make, decorated with flawless and tasteful embroidery. Upon his golden head was a silver circlet, subtle yet regal. To Ceorl, he looked every bit like a prince from the tales of old. _Aye, and a prince he is._ The young man chuckled to himself at the memory of this shocking revelation only a few nights before.

Legolas raised his head at the sound and nodded in greeting. Ceorl jogged over and fell in step with the prince.

"I trust the coronation went well?"

"It was splendid," the Elf answered with an easy smile.

A pause.

"So, my friend, now that it is all over," said Ceorl with a light, hopeful grin on his lips, "I suppose it is time to go home?"

When the Elf failed to reply, the young man halted his steps and turned around. Legolas, too, had slowed his strides, bringing his right foot to a halt next to his left with a silent pang of finality.

Ceorl felt his smile dissipate into the cool spring air.

"Actually, my friend… I do not think I shall be going home."

The young man felt his eyes widen. The _feeling_ suddenly came rushing back, hurling along flashes of the Elven-prince – his pained smiles, haunting words, and old, _old_ eyes.

( _"See, you have not lost everything."_ Ceorl had heard those words – understood them – but forgot to ask, _"What about you?"_ He felt as if he already knew the answer though.)

The man stared hard at the cobblestone ground, not daring to look at the Elf's face.

"I do not think I shall be going home," the prince repeated softly, as if admitting an unspeakable secret. "I… I do not know what to do with myself."

Ceorl swallowed thickly, clenched his teeth, and looked up.

"Why?"

"I have spent two millennia fighting against death," Legolas replied in a whisper. "I fear I may have forgotten how to live."


End file.
